MILE OAK MUTTERINGS

5th AUGUST 2010

Sorry this is late but for my first few days back in the UK I was mired in a swamp of lethargy and apathy, which began as we descended into the clouds over the English Channel and emerged into a shower over Kent. I am now starting to acclimatize back to my surroundings and becoming a bit less of a miserable old witch. 

The studied contrast I presented as the Catherine who boarded the flight in Larnaca in the midst of a humidity warning as the heat was due to hit 45° and the Catherine who alighted at Gatwick with a pashmina wrapped firmly round her shoulders and hunched up against the cold air was vast. It is as though all my positivity drained away as soon as I entered UK airspace – what is that all about? The night before I left the people in the pub were laughing at me because Greek Air Traffic Control were on their annual strike and that day the flights had been delayed 15 hours. ‘Don’t even think about it’ I had declared. ‘They would not dare to delay my flights that long. My flight will go as planned. In fact I’m not having it any other way.’ This obviously amused them even more but as we boarded the flight with only a 20 minute delay I still felt positive. The pilot explained that they had managed to re-route the flight around Greek airspace and therefore the flight would take slightly longer. This only turned out to be about 40 minutes and was much better than 15 hours in the airport. However, this didn’t stop half the passengers moaning about it – but plus ça change! The flight was completely full except for the two seats next to me, so I had three seats to myself and hence a very comfortable flight looking through the clear skies to the plains of Turkey and the forests of Bulgaria and Croatia. When I wasn’t looking at the sights I was reading ‘Paperweight’ by Stephen Fry. It was a good job I was sitting alone as I kept giggling out loud. This had already occasioned a number of conversations in the airport lounge as people wanted to know what I was reading. Still I managed to get on the flight without being carted away. So it was with surprise that the familiar stress, irritation and panic started to hit me as we waited nearly an hour at Gatwick for our baggage, which seemed to be dribbling along the conveyor belt one suitcase at a time. My brother phoned me from the arrivals lounge to find out if I had been refused entry back into the country and I snapped at him. Yet I still felt positive as I came out and saw him and much to his disgust jabbered at him all the way down the M23. 

The trouble began the next day when I opened my eyes and instead of sun and sea I saw greyness and the roof opposite. So I shut my eyes again. When I did get up I had to put on a jumper and my pashmina despite everyone telling me it was warm. So already I wasn’t in top form – as you know from my previous blogs cold and grey are my two least favourite things on earth, even MacArseholes and Nestle don’t depress me as much, even together in the same sentence, and that is saying something! My poor mother then took me to Sainsbury’s. All I am saying is she should get a medal. Within seconds of being in there that old familiar friend of mine, the panicky claustrophobe, emerged from wherever she had been hiding for the last 8 months. By the time we left amidst my sobs of: ‘I just wanted olive oil, not 87 different bloody types of olive oil – why is it so difficult’ and trying to remember when I had last seen so many people in one place pushing and shoving and generally being ignorant (what is it about English people when they get behind a shopping trolley – they seem to lose all decency and think it is perfectly ok to barge into anyone they like without apology) I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. So as soon as I got back to my mother’s I decided I had to escape on a bus. I was hoping to get away without having to talk to anyone as I was not in a good place and I was going out before I snapped (even more) at my mother. So when two very old friends and neighbours kindly stopped to say ‘are you pleased to be back’ I immediately answered ‘no, I wish my mother lived anywhere else.’ Needless to say I have spent the last few days beating myself up about this. There is no excuse, but if I had one it would be that I was tired, cold and trying desperately to adjust to the feeling of no escape that Mile Oak always engenders in me. 

At this point I should say a few words about Mile Oak. It is not a bad place. In fact if you are happy here it is a lovely place. It is surrounded by the South Downs on three sides and to the south of it is Portslade-by-Sea, so you are at the coast in ten minutes by car. With a few exceptions over the last 34 years the people here have been kind to me and my mum loves it. She grew up only a few streets away from her current house and never wants to leave it. Buses run every 10 minutes into Hove and Brighton and if you drive the other direction you find yourself in the glorious Sussex countryside. So, I hear you asking, what is my problem? This blog is too small to even begin to explore the many and varied issues I have had here over the course of my lifetime and, more than that, it would bore the arse off you. Suffice to say that I do not, and never have, felt at home here. It makes me feel small and suffocated. Yet, I say to you, these are my issues and Mile Oak should not be judged on my words alone. I will just point out that if the bloody sun came back out I might feel a bit better! 

The next day I caught the bus into Brighton and despite the fact that I would not want to come back permanently I do think that Brighton has so much of which it should be proud. When you grow up in a place you become blind to its attributes and it is only by dint of separation – having lived away in Totnes and then in Cyprus – that I can see those merits. Brighton is a truly cosmopolitan town. There are no rules and anyone can make their home here without fear of judgement. Growing up in the vicinity I had never noticed the variety of people who lived here. It is only since living firstly in predominantly white Devon and then in Cyprus, where strangely although there is a wide variety of nationalities living together there are very few non-caucasians, that I have noticed how global Brighton is. Sitting on the bus the other day I looked out of the window and within 20 people passing by the stop in Churchill Square I must have seen every race and creed. How wonderful is that. There was a woman in a sari chatting to a man with blonde dreadlocks piled high on his head in a bizarre fashion; a striking woman in full African dress holding hands with a Japanese man; youths of all colours dressed in the uniform of English Teenagers and none of them noticing their differences, because, and this is the crux of the matter, there is no difference. They are all just English teenagers out for the day enjoying themselves. An interview with a Brighton Alderman in Time Magazine from 1931 quotes him as saying: ‘In Brighton any man can sing anything – well almost anything – in any language he knows’ and this still holds true today. 

We are also in the midst of Gay Pride week in Brighton which will culminate in the now world famous parade this Saturday. This too is something that Brighton does so well, allowing people to come and be free in their sexuality without having to pander to people’s prejudices. It was always a refuge for Gay men in particular even when it was still a criminal offence and now a lot of the town’s vibrancy is due to the Gay community. Maybe growing up here has helped me to be free from prejudice, but I have never understood how it is a social death to love someone – anyone - but socially acceptable to hate, condemn and hurt. Surely love in any form is never wrong. I had to go and meet my Aunty Anne on Tuesday and was devastated to learn that this meant that I had missed Betty Swallocks’ Cabaret in Hove (although it was nice to see my Aunty Anne!). I am also going to miss the lesbian mud wrestling as that is on at the same time as my nephew’s birthday party at the weekend, but I will go to the parade and be proud that Brighton helped to change the attitudes of the world – although sadly there are still many people who for some bizarre reason feel threatened by people’s differences, and I have been on the receiving end of that myself on many occasions, but the world is changing and for that we should be grateful. 

Now we are all aware of the principle of Esho Funi – oh come on now you know you are! Well for the couple of you out there who aren’t I will explain. This is the principle that how you are feeling inside is reflected by your outer environment – obviously there is slightly more to it than that, but that is all you are getting right now! I had a prime example of Esho Funi on Sunday, having been brittle and snappy all day my front tooth cracked and broke in the evening! That’ll teach me – although I bet it doesn’t. I took my nephew out for the day on Tuesday and he was very kind in not being embarrassed by his gappy no-tooth old aunty. I managed to get an emergency appointment late Tuesday afternoon (busy day Tuesday!) and my brother, may 1000 blessings fall on his head, took me along there because, as is the story of my life – all together now – ‘it wasn’t on a bus route’. As we were sitting in the waiting room a sound like an almighty fart let rip. Danny and I looked at each other and both said ‘well it wasn’t me’ and started giggling like the grown-ups we indubitably are. The receptionist looked shame-faced and said that somehow the wind got under the flooring and regularly made that noise. At that point another woman came in and as she stood at reception the noise thundered through the room again. I don’t think mine and Danny’s roars of laughter helped alleviate the situation. When I came out of the dentist I found Danny examining the floor as the receptionist had said that if he could fix it my treatment would be free, sadly he is used to fixing trains and planes and not wooden flooring, but he did try. 

Just as a brief aside I think I became middle class for about 2 hours last Saturday. I went to watch my nephew, Aidan, and my friends’ son, Luke, play for their local cricket team. They were playing on Southwick village green and I fully expected Bertie Wooster and Lord Peter Wimsey to come out to bat at any moment. Luckily I finished the match as much of a socialist as I began, which was a relief. It was also pouring down, so no one brought out cucumber sandwiches and relaxed with their feet up and their panama hats tipped forward over their eyes, but it was probably the most English thing I have done in years. And don’t tell anyone, but I think I quite enjoyed it!

Anyway next week it will be Totnes Titterings, but I will leave you with a quote from Samuel Rogers, who was writing about Regency Brighton in 1829 when he said: ‘Brighton is still very gay and full of balls.’ Too right it is!